


Closer

by feeding_geese



Series: It Can be Good Again [2]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeding_geese/pseuds/feeding_geese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss tries to figure out why things are so damn awkward, and realizes that maybe they don’t need to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Suzanne Collins, she owns all this glorious madness.

The house smells wonderful. He must’ve finished his work early and started dinner. He’s been sleeping here for the past two months as little by little we get used to our new, damaged lives. The sleeping part is as comforting as ever, strangely enough. My nightmares aren’t as intense and he’s stopped having night sweats. Instead of jumping at every noise in the house, I’m soothed by the sound of the mattress shifting under his weight, his light snore, the pop of his joints as he stretches his fingers. 

Even the mornings have lost their awkwardness and seem routine. We wake up, I use the upstairs bathroom and he uses the downstairs. We eat. Some days we have the strength to work on the book and some days we go our separate ways until its time for dinner and bed.  
I haven’t seen him all day. There’s an odd flipping in my heart when he pokes his head out of the kitchen, like it’s trying to catch up with me.  
“You’re back early.” His face falls when he sees me rubbing at the spot, trying to figure out what’s wrong with my chest. Maybe I shouldn’t have climbed that tree today. I must’ve over-exerted myself. “Are you okay?”  
It gets worse the closer he gets. I wave him off.  
“Fine,” I cough at the sudden adrenaline. “I’m fine. I think I just pushed it too much today.” With a few deep breaths, it goes away, but he’s not going to budge until he knows I’m alright.  
“You want a sedative or something? I’ve got some really amazing stuff back at my house. Not as strong as morphling, but it’ll take the edge off of anything.” Neither of us like taking pills, but we both have cupboards full of Capitol medications designed to control every conceivable emotion or physical hurt. Every now and again I’ll see Peeta take a little red pill with a grim face. When I was brave enough to ask him what it was for, in the dark when I couldn’t see his face, he just said, “voices.”  
I don’t want any pills. He darts back into the kitchen and returns with a glass of pale yellow liquid with little green specks. He motions for me to drink and I do so without hesitation. If he made it, it’s going to taste good. I pull back at the tart sweetness with a minty aftertaste.  
“Is this…did you make lemonade?”  
“Rations came in today and I saw they had lemons, so I thought…don’t worry, it’s all my ration. Yours is in the pantry. I grabbed you some apples. I hope that’s okay. ” I’m still drinking. It’s really good.  
“You can eat my food without asking, Peeta,” I gasp. “I mean, you do one-hundred percent of the cooking.” Now that we’re showing signs of improvement, Greasy Sae doesn’t cook for us anymore. Peeta told her it helps him to relax and keeps him busy. We were all a little nervous about him using knives at first, but he’s regained control of his hands and the repetitive motions are good for his concentration.  
“…okay.” We fill our awkward pauses with busy work. I drain the glass and he’s quick to pour me another. He said it so casually that I didn’t even notice.  
“Wait. You picked up apples. Do you mean…did you go into town today?” He smiles and there’s that tick of pain again.  
“I figured I can’t be a hermit forever, holed up at my house or yours. I wanted to see what that smoke was about.” I noticed it on the way out of the woods. A huge, billowing plume of smoke on the outskirts of town. For a moment I panicked until I ran into Thom and he told me they were doing a controlled burn.  
“I guess they’re clearing out farm land. Seeds are coming in from 11 as soon as the Capitol can work out a ration system. We can grow our own food. I’m thinking about starting a plot in my yard.” The implications are staggering. Self-sufficiency. Fresh produce. Even people who can’t grow will have some sort of access to food. Maybe things in 12 will actually turn around.  
“Why don’t you do it here? You do all your eating here anyway.” It sounds like a dig, so I quickly add, “not that I don’t like you eating here! It’s okay—it’s good! I…like you eating here.” Why is my mouth full of knotted rope and cotton balls lately? I almost prefer when I couldn’t speak at all to the mealy-mouthed bundle of nerves I’ve become as of late. It must be a new manifestation of trauma. I’ll have to ask Dr. Aurelius about it, meaning that I’ll have to actually call him.  
Peeta studies me for a moment, probably trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Both of our lists are extensive. Finally he shrugs and says, “who knows if it’ll yield anything—I don’t know thing one about gardening.”  
“Neither do I. You think they’ll send somebody around to teach people?”  
“I’d think they’d have to. I heard that Threll had a secret garden behind his house, but he never got much out of it.” He points at my game bag. “Is that for trading or for dinner?” I hand it over.  
“Both. It was a good day, so take your pick.” He tosses the flap over the side and whistles.  
“You weren’t kidding!” He looks up. “Hey, factoring in some bread, how much of this do you think we’d have to trade to get some vanilla?” Until things settle down, all of our actual money is useless. We’ve each been bartering on our own, but if we pool our resources, we get more.  
“Maybe three of the hares if you make those blackberry muffins again. Rooba’s husband has a sweet tooth. Just one if you bring more of that lemonade.” He swirls the jug.  
“I think you just drank half of it.”  
“Then it’s fowl for dinner.”  
I follow him into the kitchen to clean and butcher while he pulls some cheese buns out of the oven. I didn’t notice while we were on the carpet, but now that we’re on tile, I can hear a distinctive clicking sound. I look down and notice that he’s barefoot. He catches me looking and blushes a little.  
“I can put my shoes back on if it bothers you. I just like the one foot to feel something.” He’s never gone around barefoot in my house before. It’s a sign that he’s getting comfortable here. The old Katniss would worry about it, over compensate by making him go back to his own house for a while or at least put on shoes. I don’t entertain those kind of thoughts anymore. Life’s too short. Too many people have lost the opportunity to walk around in their bare feet. I take off my own boots and wiggle my toes at him. Our quiet laughter still sounds weird, like we’ve forgotten how to do it.  
“Where did you go today?” I ask, picking at the oat loaf left over from breakfast.  
“Just around the edges. Out to the burn and then the helipad. I couldn’t go any further than that.” The ashes have blown away, but I know that big lump of oven is still in the town square. I’m glad he kept his distance. It’s something he’ll eventually have to face, but right now I want to protect him from it. He’s been making such good progress—any time he smiles it’s a victory for me.  
“That’s good, though. It’s out of the house.”  
“Yeah.” His face is turned away from me, busy with greens. “I was thinking maybe I could tag along next time you go trading. Push myself a little. If you don’t mind.”  
“Sure.” My route skirts the areas that suffered the least damage, where people who came after the Victors’ Village filled salvaged dwellings. It’d be nice to have some company and, alright, I’ve noticed that at certain times during the day, I miss him. I want to hold him at times other than when we’re sad or anxious or breaking down. I don’t—I’m not sure if I should—but I think about it a lot. I’m thinking about it now, so I focus on plucking the bird in my hand, pulling so hard that I send feathers flying.  
“What did you do today? Besides hunt?”  
“I climbed a tree. Well, half a tree. I got a little dizzy, so I came back down. It was nice, though. I haven’t been strong enough to until now.” He turns and leans his back against the counter.  
“Good,” he smiles, pulling a feather from my hair. “Did you get down all right?” I wonder if it’s a casual question or if he remembers the time I fell over the fence. When my damaged foot meant we spent every day together.  
“Pretty much,” I roll my shoulders back and feel a twinge. “I think my spine twisted funny on the last branch. I tried cracking it, but it won’t budge. It’s not bad, though.”  
“You want me to do it?”  
“How? I don’t want you walking on my back or anything.” He’d probably break it. He’s still underweight, but he’ll always be bigger than I am. His laugh sounds really nice, even when it’s at my expense.  
“No, it’s easy. We used to do it in wrestling all the time. Stand up.” I hesitate. I want him to and I don’t at the same time. Partly because I don’t know what he’s going to do, but mostly because he’ll be touching me and I’m still working out how I feel when we even hold hands. In this instance, Peeta’s patience with me runs out. “Katniss, we sleep in the same bed,” he sighs. “Let me crack your back. You’ll feel better, I promise.” I stand up and let him cross my arms over my chest. Then he leans the front of his body up against the back of mine and wraps his arms around mine, grabbing hold of me at the elbows. “Okay, take a deep breath.” I’m embarrassed that it’s so shaky. He holds me every night, why is it so awkward when it’s light out and we’re not in bed? He waits until I give a good, solid exhale, then lifts me straight up off the ground. My spine falls into place in one tremendous crack that I’m sure can be heard down the block along with my groan of relief. I wonder what the neighbors think we’re doing and my face goes red. He puts my feet firmly on the ground and lets go right away. I feel lighter, taller, and a little euphoric.  
“Better?”  
“That was amazing,” I nod, swallowing a smile as I think about having that done every day from now on.  
“I’ll make you a deal. If, when you feel like smiling, you just smile instead of worrying if you should…I’ll crack your back whenever you want.” It’s a tough deal to pass up, so we shake on it. We hold onto each other’s hand until it gets awkward and I notice that his thumb has been drawing little circles on the inside of my wrist. He does the same thing to my shoulder at night. It’s a nervous reflex—I used to notice him tracing upholstery patterns and wood grain like that. He lets go as soon as he notices he’s doing it.  
“Sorry. It’s a reflex.” His finger starts scratching at his pants leg.  
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” I give him a smile. “It tickles a little.” He lets out a breath of a laugh. With all we’ve been through together, it suddenly feels ridiculous to worry about whether or not it’s okay to smile or touch. Peace times seem even more difficult than war, where there was always something more dangerous looming above our heads. It’s slow and awkward, but I think we’ll be alright, he and I. Not as separate entities, but together. We’ll be alright together. With a little time. I can’t stammer out the words, so I just smile some more. He scratches at where his eyebrows are growing in.  
“I’m, uh, I’m going to run to my house for a minute and grab some more sugar. I used most of what’s here for the lemonade. If you want, I can make some tarts with the apples.” Never have I had such a plenitude of good food before. He doesn’t bother putting on shoes as he walks out the door.  
“Hey, come out and see this.” He’s standing out on the porch, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The smoke and ash have set the sky on fire, ablaze with reds and oranges so intense that it almost hurts to stare at it. Neither of us can look away, though. “Would you look at that…” he breathes.  
It’s the first genuinely beautiful thing I’ve seen since coming back. I can feel my body fighting to acknowledge any feeling other than pain or numbness or confusion.  
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he continues. “That something destructive can create something like that? Kind of hopeful, I guess.” I pry my eyes away from the rich hues and stare at him. How did he do it? Pull himself out of that deep, dark place they pushed him down? I watch him watch the sky darken and I can see the marks of war on his face. But underneath is the boy who slept beside me on the train, who sleeps beside me now, who knows how to chase my nightmares away and turn his own pain into art. Someone who, deep down, understands me where others gave up trying.  
I don’t give myself time to think it over. We’ve never really kissed in a place where our lives weren’t at risk before, and if I think about how I’m supposed to do it and what I think it should feel like, I’ll talk myself out of it. So I press my lips briefly to the corner of his mouth, a little east of a real kiss.  
“What was that for?”  
“Nothing.” Suddenly it’s hard to look him in the eye. “I just wanted to.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so wide.  
“Can I give you one back?” I don’t know why my face is so hot when I agree. We’re old hat at kissing, but it feels like the first time we’ve ever done it. It’s more centered, and there’s a slight tug at my lower lip when he pulls away, but it’s still barely a brush. Neither of us ask for another, although I really wouldn’t mind another. Not until we crawl into bed and he asks if he can kiss me goodnight. Then good morning. Hello, goodbye, how are you? Please, thank you, you’re welcome, until I can’t fathom waking or sleeping or going about my day in any sense without sneaking a kiss from him at least ten times. They grow deeper, longer, accompanied by tight embraces or fingers tangled in hair. Each one feels a little different, sweet or shy or sad or hungry, but most of all, they start to feel like home.


End file.
